


where we're going

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: bits and bobs [4]
Category: British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Richard is an idiot, Whirlwind Romance, i cannot stress it enough, there is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: For the first time in his life, Richard’s just been taking it all in. Living for the day, not asking too many questions. Slowly but surely falling into it—falling for Taron. Not overthinking anything, not second-guessing himself, just wishing it could last forever.Then, one morning, while they’re in bed, it all comes flooding in.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: bits and bobs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668343
Comments: 48
Kudos: 63





	1. can I get back to my loneliness?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again, long time no speak.
> 
> [This song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5TzxRzjzhE9oF6CcEgPTJ9?si=JmPtUJ1vSU-xwiNcxAjtCw) came out a couple of weeks ago, and, you know me, I kind of got inspired.
> 
> I speculate way too much about that fateful time in 2018 after the end of _Rocketman_ , when Richard moved to LA and Taron shaved his head. This is a poorly articulated result of those endless hours of pondering. Also, I may or may not have many, many tinhat theories on Richard Madden, mainly involving a general crippling imposter syndrome, and they may or may not have seeped into whatever you're about to read. But again, what else is fucking new.
> 
> I do apologise for the angst in the first bit. I promise it's got a happy ending—because I've already written it, and because life is way too hard already.

_can I get back to my loneliness?  
I don't know what to do with all the happiness that you're giving me lately  
you know that I could tell my heart do anything  
but it seems that in the end I fuck up everything and it's killing me slowly_

Richard hasn’t even been thinking about it. Not at all, in fact. He’s just let himself get lost in an enjoyable routine, mainly consisting of heeled boots, sharp suits and wigs—in short, the intoxicating euphoria of doing his job and doing it well.

Late nights. Castmates. Happy hours.

And Taron, of course.

Taron.

On set. Off set. Sat in front of him in crowded bars. Pinned against the door of his trailer. Naked between his sheets.

All around him, every hour of every day. Omnipresent.

Inside his head—unshakeable, all-consuming truth. Inside his heart—sunny warmth, soothing balm on his wounds. Omnipotent.

For the first time in his life, he’s just been taking it all in. Living for the day, not asking too many questions. Slowly but surely falling into it—falling for Taron. Not overthinking anything, not second-guessing himself, just wishing it could last forever.

Then, one morning, while they’re in bed, it all comes flooding in.

_Just one week left. Leaving for LA. Long-distance r—_

Ah, and who in the fuck even knows what this is, after all. _Relationship_ sounds foreign.

(He said it, once. Alone, in front of a mirror. It pierced his tongue. Like chomping on a cactus leaf. Tried simply thinking it, then—on the few instances when he gave his brain a break from the constant whizzing and swooping of days and nights on a Dexter Fletcher movie set. And even then, even when it was only his mind’s voice—that overly broad Glaswegian sixteen-year-old Richard Madden, who knows nothing of the world and nothing of himself, and whom it’s somehow easier and easier to put on mute, these days—saying the word, _relationship_ sounded just as alien and far-fetched. As if anyone would ever want _that_ with him.)

He’s enlightened, when he realises. That kind of clarity he only gets after climaxing. That white-hot rush, fresh and bright. All his nerves alive and alight, shining, glimmering.

He’s Midas, turning everything he touches into lifeless gold.

Taron’s lying on his side, chest still heaving, high on whatever they’ve become in the past couple of months. Looks up at him through fluttering eyelashes, then throws his head back against his pillow and pulls him in for a kiss that tastes like _them_.

“Run away with me,” Taron whispers, softly, against his lips. “When we’re done. When it’s over. Let’s just go somewhere. Together.”

 _Where to?_ is what he should ask.

“Can’t,” is what replies, before he can help himself.

He recognises this. _Self-sabotage_ , he believes it’s called. Can’t really do anything about it, either. Rolls with it, like he did countless times in the past.

Clouds of grey appear on Taron’s face. “Why not?”

“I’m shite at this.” _I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to be happy._

“This? What we just did, like, five minutes ago?” Taron snickers, gesturing between them and then placing a hand on Richard’s pecs, still damp with come and perspiration. He doesn’t seem to mind. He digs his fingertips in Richard’s chest hair and his stare goes blank for a split-second—often happens, Richard’s noticed, when he fixates on something. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Ah, the sound of Richard’s heart shattering into a billion pieces.

Taron quickly snaps back, though. Bright eyes. Emerald. Kelvingrove Park on a sunny day. “Because, if that’s what you mean, let me stop you right there, cowboy, and tell you you’ve most definitely outdone yourself, this time. Hells, I’ve never felt this good in my _life_ , you giant arse—thought I’d made it clear enough? Don’t think I can reasonably get any louder. Can try though, if that tickles your fancy.” Smirk. Wink.

Richard shakes his head, bites his lip. Tries very hard not to let it creep up on its face—a smug fucking grin, desperately fighting its way through. Deep into fisticuffs with the black monster inside him—that Janus-faced degeneration of the worst bits of him, anxiety and self-doubt—busy making that hole in his chest bigger and bigger by the minute.

He fails. Loses the battle, and it absolutely kills him. Kills him to smile. Kills him to acknowledge a compliment. Kills him to be happy, even for a second, in a moment like this. But he still does. Still _is_.

“I don’—”

Throat arid. The Sahara desert.

Fuck, this _hurts_.

“I don’ mean that. I mean—” Deep breath. In. Out. “Not about the sex. I just… I want tae give you so much more. But I can’t.” Thoughts loading in bursts, like on an old computer. Can’t even believe they’re coming at all, to be completely honest. Better get them out quickly, then. “I know I’ll fuck up. I always do, sooner or later. Don’ want ye to suffer because of me. You deserve better, T.”

Richard’s words like the atomic bomb, wiping the playfulness off Taron’s face. “Wait. What? Where’s this coming from?” Urgent tone. The lines between his eyebrows deep with concern. Frowning darkly. More clouds.

“I—” It’s never been so _hard_ , before. Shutting himself off, turning all the knobs of his feelings to the left and setting them on comfortable, manageable apathy. Clubs, parties, hollow snogs and one-night stands. All he deserves. All he’ll ever get.

But—

But this time—

“I can’t do this, Taron. I’m not what you need. You need someone solid, loyal, constant. You _deserve_ someone like that,” Richard says, swallowing the Mediterranean sea and hoping his voice isn’t trembling too much. “I’m not like that.”

He can’t tell whether Taron is crushed or just supremely confused. Taron is talking with his eyebrows, but it’s a language Richard doesn’t understand.

He feels like adding something else to the mix, but then decides against it. _I’m bad news_ doesn’t sound like him at all. He’s not James fucking Bond, for fuck’s sake. He’s not even John fucking Reid, for that matter. He’s just his mediocre, unworthy self. Won’t let himself fall for this. Won’t let Taron fall for him. Has to get out before he gets in too deep.

Yeah, alright. Arguably too late for that.

The rest of that morning doesn’t make much sense. Nor does the following week, to be fair. He feels Taron’s rancour through Elton’s words— _my problem was I believed you loved me, and you’re incapable of it_. And it’s just the script, it’s just words on paper and out of Taron’s mouth for Dex, the cameras, and posterity—but God _damn_ , do they strike a chord.

It all comes back to him eventually, though. At random times, on the last morning he spends in London.

When he’s checking in his four giant pieces of luggage at the BA counter, he sees Taron sitting up on the bed and pulling the duvet on himself. As if he needed physical shielding from what Richard was saying.

When he’s browsing WHSmith, scouting the refrigerated aisle for healthy snacks and the bestseller wall for detective fiction, he hears thunder. Taron’s voice, asking him why. _Why are you doing this, Richard? We could, you know. We could make it work. We could be so good together._

When he’s walking around, antsy and restless, only occasionally glancing at the screens—flight delayed, _get tae fuck_ —he feels the storm. Taron’s tears, warm and wet in the crook of his neck.

When he’s sipping on his fourth espresso of the day, he tastes Taron on his tongue. Salted caramel and sorrow.

When he’s handed a glass of champagne and hot towels in first class, and all he wants to do is snap his fingers and make everyone around him disappear, he sees himself from the outside. Lurks in the open light of an unusually bright October day and scans the room—clothes on the floor, blinds open, Bowie 45 rpm spinning on the turntable next to the window. _Absolute Beginners_. Taron’s perfect love song. Fighting the urge to mouth _those_ lyrics— _I absolutely love you_ —as he takes the last few steps towards the door.

 _Don’t do it_ , he wants to cry out. _Don’t_.

He downs the bubbly. Tastes wrong. And he still sees it in his mind’s eye, even then. That stupid mistake he made. Turning for one last look at him, bare and vulnerable. Textbook Orphean sin.

The City of Angels, and yet he’s burning in Hell.


	2. it's only destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think you’re a giant idiot, and quite possibly the most stubborn person I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, lovely folks.

_endless time, love  
there'll be another place for you and me  
endless time, love  
nothing really matters, really  
I hope one day, love  
you could open up your eyes and you will see  
it's only destiny  
where we're going this shit don't matter_

While he’s sitting on terraces and sipping on countless Campari Spritz, Richard can’t help but think that this is the weirdest month of November he’s ever lived through. He usually at least once gets stuck in the bitter cold of a Hampsted Heath afternoon or in a bitey windy spell on the banks of the Clyde. He even braved Inverness, ten-odd years ago, and it hailed so much and so hard he had to use his forearms to shield his face, and ended up with several decent-sized bruises all over them.

LA is—different. People panic for a spell of rain.

He has quote-unquote friends, in LA. Hyphenated acquaintances, showbiz people who are neither in show nor in the biz. B-listers, at best.

A couple of big shot agents, though, too. One of them manages to hook him up with an interview for some new Marvel movie—and what the actual fuck.

Funnily enough, he’s proud of himself. Specifically of how hard he’s working to push _Bodyguard_ to an American audience, who will three hundred percent think that David Budd calls the woman he fucks _mum_ and not _ma’am_ , and how funny is that, really—those pesky accents, am I right? Even Ellen finds it hilarious, so he has to laugh.

It’s quickly and very painfully obvious, though, how royally fucked he is on the inside.

Radio fucking silence from Taron for more than a week, that really feels more like three lifetimes. And yet, he still likes every single pic that Taron posts on his spanking new Instagram account, because his fingers are fast—too fast, too rash, electric, on auto-pilot, brain not following, _d’you ever get anything like that?_ —and yes, yes he does, way too often when it comes to Taron.

God fuck, Taron.

It’s all he does.

Goes on Corden, thinks of Taron.

Goes on a hike, thinks of Taron.

Sits at home, thinks of Taron.

Closes his eyes, thinks of Taron.

Wakes up hard, thinks of Taron.

Takes a dip in the ocean, thinks of Taron.

Takes a sun-kissed selfie, posts it on Instagram, thinks of Taron.

Promptly proceeds to choke on his green juice, then, when Taron comments on it.

_Marry me?_

His head is already kind of spinning, but then someone, very obviously a fan account, replies to him.

_The queue is long Taron_

Taron doesn’t miss a beat.

_Yeah but I’m at the front darling_

Immediately after, before Richard can sit down and collect himself, let his disgusting overpriced juice purge him and repress all the voices in his head that are whispering to him that he should pick up the phone and call the man right the fuck now—because, c’mon, what could go wrong, really?—he sees Taron’s face on his phone screen. A candid shot of him in an early-days Elton outfit, silver platform shoes and that denim jacket with all the patches that Richard’s still not sure why Taron hasn’t actually just stolen off Julian’s hands the minute after they were done using it.

He drags the green button from left to right, lets it go to right through his AirPods.

“I’ve decided,” Taron starts off, no _hey_ , no _how are you_ , no pleasantries—just his usual, abrupt self, calm as a monsoon, “that I’m not okay with the decision you’ve made.”

Richard is dumbfounded. Wants to kick himself for how hard his heart is beating. Tongue-tied and hopeless like a fucking schoolboy. Can’t speak, can’t think.

Just as well, though, because Taron doesn’t seem to be done. “More than _not okay_ , actually—I profoundly disagree with the entire reasoning behind it,” he says, solemnly, and Richard can feel the smile in his voice, why can he _feel_ that. “I think you’re a giant idiot, and quite possibly the most stubborn person I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

“Give it to me straight, then, why don’t you?” is all Richard can muster. Defusing the non-existent tension between them—again, that smile is so palpable, Richard feels like he’s running a thumb over it—and attempting to weather the storm inside his head and heart.

“Ah shut the fuck up, you enormous prick, and let me finish,” Taron barges in, sternly. “You’re just… impossible. I tried, Richard. I tried living without you. Did that for nine, whole, _interminable_ days, and my conclusion is that it’s absolute bollocks. Not worth the time, not worth the effort—just utter shite all round. I tried, and it’s shite.”

A lump has formed in Richard’s throat, and it’s getting progressively larger, too. Unexpected tears welling in his eyes at every syllable Taron utters. He still manages to talk, though. Has to ask. Has to know. “What’re you saying, T?”

“I’m saying,” Taron states, confidently, “that I’m refusing to accept whatever this situation is. I know I let you leave, and that’s one hundred percent on me, but I intend to correct that ASAP. In short: motion denied, Your Honour. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Oh, God, T,” Richard replies, shakily, eyes to the ceiling and his index finger between his teeth—bite hard, hard, harder, you idiot, can’t break down now, can’t.

“There’s just so many things we said we’d do together. And I dunno about you, but I still wanna do them all. Fuck, I really don’t know how else to tell you, Dickie. I mean it. Life without you is _dreadful_ , and I don’t like it. So, I’m taking you back.”

“You sound very sure of yourself…”

“…for someone who just got dumped? Yeah, I know, right?” Taron interrupts him. “Wild, innit? What playing Elton John does to you, I s’pose. But I think I know why you did it, and I refuse to believe that it’s because you weren’t happy. You couldn’t have made _me_ this happy if you hadn’t been happy yourself. Bottom line is I’m sick and tired of being mad at you, of waking up alone, and torturing myself. I just miss your stupid face so _fucking_ much.”

 _God, I love you._ Richard desperately wants to say it. But he knows he can’t. The first time can’t be over the phone, for fuck’s sake. “Alright, then, hot stuff,” he says instead, as one single tear rolls down his face and tickles the corner of his mouth. Tastes familiar. “I miss you too, and I’m sorry.”

Dialogue starts, then, and barely ever stops. Taron’s shaved head and his new collection of trilby hats. Taron’s wee sleepy smile in the morning. Taron’s glass of red at his kitchen table, _Troubadour_ sign shining neon blue in the background. Vodka-tonic (Taron) and whisky-and-coke (Richard). Even some tentative dirty talk.

Hours like years, days like centuries. Every second spent convincing himself that this _can_ work. That this is worth it, and that he does deserve to give it a shot.

Closer every day—time difference cut in half, then in half again.

Taron on a plane to NYC. Taron and Dex at an Elton concert, on the night of Taron's twenty-ninth birthday. _And you’re definitely not invited, but I’ll tell him you said hi_

He does send videos, though. And texts Richard a lot afterwards, too.

_Fucking mind-blown, Dickie. He dedicated Don’t Let The Sun to me and Dex_

_Backstage Bellinis and a dinner invitation to Woodside at the end of the month_

_That includes you, by the way_

_E said “formal” and “intimate” and “couples”—Billie Jean King and her wife will be there too, apparently? Fuckin wild_

_He can’t wait to meet you, Dickie_

_Might have told him you behaved like an utter knobhead a few weeks ago, though, so your invitation’s contingent on how many times you make me come in the space of a weekend_

_(Btw, HIS words, not mine—if you can believe it. We seem to have become entirely interchangeable, after all)._

_Point being—consider this an official warning._

_PS: can’t wait to see you_

Taron is to be on Kimmel, and Kimmel shoots in LA, so Richard spends four hours stuck in traffic, puts on a ridiculous disguise, and barges into LAX carrying a handwritten sign that says _Taron Egerton_ , with a small rendition of the rocket emoji right next to it. Looks awful, really. Then again, drawing is not the branch of the arts he chose for himself—and thank Christ for that, apparently.

Time is a whirlwind, then, between Taron flying into Richard’s arms and laughing in earnest at his fake moustache and tour guide outfit, Richard fighting tears of relief and whispering an infinite string of apologies, Taron unceremoniously taking his hand and dragging him left and right around the arrivals lounge, desperately searching for a private space—that surely can’t reasonably be the airport chapel, although that would have sort of been fun, bucket list and all that—and ending up in an accessible toilet instead.

A frantic show of hungry hands and roaming mouths follows, one that leaves them both wrecked and breathless.

(Richard on his knees, pilgrim in search of forgiveness. Taron’s hand in his hair, offering praise and comfort, inflicting just the right amount of pain. Richard lets him. Takes it all in. Deserves it. Loves it. Loves _him_. Says thank you—still kneeling—when he’s done. Taron scoffs, tells him not to be ridiculous. Pulls him up and catches his lips in a heartbeat that lasts a lifetime. Richard comes with Taron’s hand around his cock and the tip of his tongue slotted inside the tiny silver hoop earring in Taron’s right lobe.)

The Campari tastes less bitter, that night. The untrained, shallow observer would offer it might be because it’s actually Aperol—but Richard knows it’s because of Taron. Even LA seems bearable, when he’s around.

They pick Taron’s suite at Chateau Marmont as a backdrop and fuck their way into the early hours of the morning. Even afterwards, Richard doesn’t sleep a wink—too enthralled by Taron, the rhythm of his deep breaths. Too caught up in the joy of having him back. Too busy kicking himself for even fathoming living without him for a single day.

“Don’t you dare,” Taron says the next day, first thing in the morning, before Richard even opens his eyes. “Don’t you dare leave me again.”

In the next couple of days, they get out of bed only occasionally, and only when it’s absolutely necessary. Inside said bed (and in the shower, against walls, on the couch, on the kitchen counter, on the garden settee) Richard spends countless hours showing Taron the best time of his entire life.

“What’s the verdict, then?” he asks, emerging from underneath the sheets and between Taron’s legs, wiping a few tiny splashes of come off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Am I invited to the blasted dinner party?”

“Mmh, let’s see,” Taron says, breathlessly. After regaining his composure and chuckling in earnest, blissed out, he adds, “Yes, I reckon you’ve done it. Shall let the Big Man know, pronto.”

“Very well, you pompous bastard,” Richard replies, planting a wet kiss on Taron’s lips. He suspects he looks pretty smug, if a little worse for wear. His jaw and tongue are sore as they’ve never, ever been. Then again, very deliberately paraphrasing Henry IV of France, dinner at Elton John’s in the presence of gay royalty is _well worth_ an ache in the jaw.

And Taron is, too. Most fucking definitely.

They fly back to London together. Richard talks to some people and gets Taron invited to a promotional event for the new Land Rover. Taron posts a selfie of them both in the car on the way there— _can’t stand this guy_ —then spends the whole night looking wide-eyed and smitten. Luke Evans discreetly whispers _congratulations, boys_ , and Richard really, really has to refrain from just grabbing Taron’s hand in front of everyone or snogging him against the wall of the gents.

Richard’s best friend of ten years is there too, with his husband, and every time Taron excuses himself to talk to someone or replenish drinks, the pair simply cannot stop going on about how much they adore him.

Richard does too. Loves him, adores him, worships him.

That same night, after a pleasantly handsy cab drive back to Taron’s flat, Richard tells him. And Taron says it back.

The next weekend, at Elton’s dinner table, they do hold hands, in front of everyone. It’s comfortable, easy. Meant to be, some would say.

Months later—when they’re walking the red carpet at Cannes Film Festival, when they lock fingers over their shared armrest in the darkened theatre, when they get to watch themselves have passionate sex on the big screen, when _Rocketman_ gets a standing ovation and Taron breaks down in front of the cameras, when Taron sings with Elton on the beach, when they all go to a yacht party and get blind pissed, when just the two of them tumble back to Taron’s room at the Carlton and make love all night long—that’s when Richard’s finally, completely, absolutely sure.

It’s only destiny.

And you can’t fuck with destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the unlikely circumstance that you'd be unfamiliar with the Instagram posts I mentioned:  
> \- [Richard's shirtless selfie](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bp9S4_RAA7W/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) (and yes, Taron's comments are real, too real, could not possibly have made them up in a million years)  
> \- [the Land Rover gig boyfriends selfie](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bqfpu8ZlBfI/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)  
> The couples' dinner at Elton's is also very much a real thing I've thought about way too much over the past, wow, almost a year.
> 
> If you're stil here, thank you. I hope you're all keeping safe and healthy.
> 
> Love you loads,
> 
> C xx

**Author's Note:**

> I am painfully aware how shit this is. I just needed to get it out.
> 
> Peace out, I love you all.
> 
> C x


End file.
